The Joust, or, In The Oy Of The Beholder
by Dan Ruffolo
Summary: When Devonin gets Bored, He Loves A Little Wordplay, So When A Joust Is Set Up To Provide Humour, He Can't Resist Going To Watch.


(With apologies to Bugs Bunny, Homer, and Good Taste)  
  
I was bored. Occurrences such as this have been rare over the past several years. I had been out adventuring with a group known as the Bold Blades. Many daring adventures, rescued damsels and all of that rot, in exchange for which I managed to acquire a few tomes of magical spells, and an assortment of gewgaws and gadgetry, only the minute portion of which was actually useful for anything. And for that I had risked life and limb.  
  
But I was taking a respite from the adventuring life, kicking back and relaxing, so to speak. I had decided to enjoy one of my more frivolous pursuits and attend a joust being scheduled for this afternoon. I am a fan of wordplay, and if the list of participants proved accurate, and the judges equally poor with word choice, the afternoon could prove quite hilarious. Following is a roughly exact transcription of the day's events.  
  
I had been ready to leave with enough time to spare to find a prime vantage point from which I could see the action at both the jousting and sparring rings. As much of a fan of swordplay as one versed in the magical arts could be, too many confrontations involving close combat had somewhat spoiled the experience and I looked forward to a little gentlemanly horse fighting. Taking a seat in the bleachers that had been specially constructed for this occasion, I waited for the fun to begin. I was not disappointed.  
  
"Ladies and Gentle sirs, welcome to the third annual jousting tourney of Raven's Bluff. We have many noble competitors in both the joust and swordsmanship categories for this tourney, and it behoves me to introduce them in turn." I couldn't help but snicker already, in anticipation.  
  
"First, we welcome a master swordsman from Waterdeep, the noble Sir Loin of Beef." At this, a man strode onto the field, clad in plate armour in shades of brown, with a full helmet. His shield was embossed with the crest of his title, a cow on a green field. In preparation for today's activities I had taken the liberty of doing some research on the competitors. Sir Loin was the head of a farming community outside Waterdeep proper that had been annexed as part of a growing campaign designed to consolidate the peoples of the Inner Sea. Upon annexation, the farming community had elected Loin to be their representative, and so he was gifted with lands and titles, thus the Sir. By all accounts, however, he was a rather cruel man, not above resorting to foul measures to ensure his victory. Therefore he was right at home in the petty politics of Waterdeep.  
  
At this point, he had moved to stand before Lady Thoden, the mayor of Raven's Bluff, and addressed her quietly. From the look he had given her, it seemed he had certain ideas about how to celebrate his coming victory. And from the look she gave him, and the slight paling of his face, she had, in typical Amber Thoden behaviour, told him exactly where Loin and his loins could stick themselves. The day was getting more entertaining by the moment, and it was all I could do to not laugh in the faces of the oblivious townsfolk. Just to make myself feel better, I looked across the field to where a colleague of mine, one almost my equal in intelligence, looked on, and as our eyes met, I caught the look of amusement in his face. At least the humour was not lost on everyone.  
  
After Sir Loin had finished his preening, the next combatant was introduced. This man, one Sir Osis, hailed from the faraway land of Alanon, from a city situated on the banks of the Liver River. What would possess someone to come from that far afield just to participate in a jousting tournament was beyond my logical ability to comprehend, but nevertheless here he was. My research indicated that he was a master of all things martial, and so was participating in both events this day. He was a brutal, efficient general and had led his army to victory many times, always at the front line.  
  
He rode onto the field on a dapple-grey stallion, his platemail seeming to glow a sickly shade of green. His standard was a beer mug on a green background, which was shown on a pole attached to his back in the old style of heraldry. His shield, hanging on his back, bore the same design. He rode up to the mayor and dismounted, and with a nasty look to Sir Loin, sketched a courtly bow to Lady Thoden. His voice, unlike that of Sir Loin, rang out over the field.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure for I, Sir Osis of the Liver, to be here today to battle for the honour of being named your champion. The people of Alanon, in recognition for the honour granted me by being invited to this tournament, I have arrived with five hundred barrels of our finest mead, Liver Brown Ale, to be distributed free of charge to all of the local taverns and inns. Please enjoy our gift as I enjoy your hospitality."  
  
As he finished, the glare from Sir Loin only deepened in intensity as a great cheer went up among the spectators. I, for one, could scarce contain my mirth as pun after unintentional pun went whooshing over the heads of the audience like so much grapeshot. But the best was yet to come, for I had just received an invitation, by virtue of my many services to the city, and under express request of the mayor, to officiate the proceedings. The potential for fun was just too great and I took a seat at the central stand, waiting for the remainder of he competitors to be introduced.  
  
Next to take to the field was a thin lithe man riding a black stallion. He had the look of an acrobat about him, and he seemed ready to leap out of his saddle at the slightest provocation. He was garbed in a gaily-coloured patchwork of leather, substantially less protected than the other two men to take the field thus far. He was Sir Cus D'Soliel, and he was from the lands far to the south, in Souragné. He waved happily to the crowd, grinning from ear to ear, and I could tell he was already the fan favourite over the two more dour individuals. Approaching the growing line of knights, he jumped straight out of his stirrups, standing upright on his saddle. Bowing to the Lady mayor from there, he leapt into the air, turning a double backflip, and landing on his feet where he bowed again. Sir Loin's bushy brown eyebrows rose up into his hairline at this surprising agility, and Sir Osis gulped in a blatant display of uneasiness at the agility of his soon-to-be opponent. For her part, Lady Thoden smiled widely, and held her hand out for a kiss. Seems the old country charm still had its effect on everyone.  
  
As the gasps and cheers of the crowd died down, he bowed again, once, in each direction that there were spectators. Nodding to himself, he stood in line with his other fellows.  
  
Next to enter was a brutish ox of a man named Sir Tain of Nothing. He had no land, no real title. In fact, the only reason he was able to participate as a noble was because he had the sponsorship of a local lord, a lord who no doubt had a large sum of money riding on the outcome. Thus the honorary knighting, and his lordship over nothing. The man was huge, closer to seven feet than six, and easily three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Even the agile Sir Cus seemed uneasy around him. Garbed in spotless, plain white platemail, he would have looked somewhat dashing were it not for the look of blatant stupidity covering his face like a veil of ignorance. The man could not read, could not write more than his name. However, he was one of the strongest men in the city. He was a lumberjack by original trade, and had been known to fell grown oaks in one massive swing. In keeping with brute force over skill, he had strapped to his back a Flamberge, an enormous sword favoured by northern barbarians. He strode out to the field, there being no horse large enough to bear him, and took his place in line.  
  
Finally, the fifth noble competitor made his entrance, and from the gasps of surprise, and in many cases, fear, coming from the stands around me, I knew that this man's reputation had preceded itself far beyond the realms of my research. His name was Sir Lactose the Intolerant, and for a villain, he certainly looked the part. Black plate armour covered his chest, legs and arms, and he carried a black metal shield, embossed with the emblem of a grinning skull. A longsword hung at his hip, and an even longer broadsword was scabbarded across his back, although how he intended to use both weapons and a shield at once was beyond me. I had heard much of the atrocities committed by this man, who was responsible for countless deaths and murdersand I began to wonder just who had invited him to participate, for they were risking discrediting if discovered.  
  
He rode out onto the field on a stallion of the deepest black, no accounting for taste I guess, but he did have to complete the 'oh, I am evil' ensemble, and as he took to the field he was greeted with boos and hisses from the crowd. Casting an evil glare out into the stands, he quieted section after section with his piercing look. As evil as the man obviously was, he certainly knew how to control the populace.  
  
The seneschal announced the end of the introduction of the noble competitors, and then read from a long list of other combatants in the joust. As the list went on and on, I couldn't help but take another look at the noblemen participating. Sir Loin and Sir Tain seemed to not really bother with listening, Sir Loin because he didn't care, Sir Tain because he probably didn't know someone was talking. Sir Osis and Sir Lactose were listening with intense attention, hoping to hear a name or two they recognised to help assess their chances. Sir Cus had cocked his head to one side and was sending sidelong glances to various attractive women in the crowd, all of whom had the exact same reaction, a blush, then a giggle, then a shy smile. Yes, the old country charm was very much in evidence.  
  
After the lists had been read, the games were handed into my ever-capable hands. Organising the rounds in the Amnian style, I had arranged during the proceedings to have a large board, with succeedingly fewer hooks on it, as one looked to the right. This allowed a complete listing of matches to the left, with the victor of each moving to the right, until at the far right, the final match would appear. A duplicate board stood to the side of it for the swordsmanship matches. With a handy spell I had prepared for just this eventuality, my magically enhanced voice explained this process to the audience. Once I felt they understood the basic idea, I began to dictate the order of starting matches, placing the noble competitors at intervals along the board to allow the most non-noble/noble matches. Once this was done, I left filling in the other spaces to the ever-present servants and squires. Now, at this point I'll admit I gave in to temptation and put, on both lists, Sir Cus and Sir Lactose at extreme ends of the board, so that, if undefeated they would match up against each other in the final rounds. Something about good versus evil I guess.  
  
The first joust was between Sir Cus and a man named Jonas Sloth. This one was over before it began. As their horses sped towards each other, Sir Cus dropped his lance, and jumped up onto his saddle. If this wasn't impressive enough at a trot, at full gallop it was awe-inspiring. Sloth seemed not too unfazed, and levelled his lance at the very exposed body of Sir Cus. Rather than drop into the saddle, Sir Cus farther amazed the crowd and myself, by actually running up his opponents lance, and bashing him in the head with a hitherto unseen cudgel. The man slumped down and out of his saddle, and Sir Cus nimbly leapt back onto his still running horse and remounted. The cheers from the crowd were deafening, and I couldn't help but see the daggers being glared at him by every other noble competitor, with the notable exception of Sir Tain, who's jaw was just as dropped as everyone else's.  
  
I happily removed Goodman Sloth's name from the lists and pushed Sir Cus' to the next rank, chuckling to myself at the irony of names that seemed like to be continuous occurrence throughout.  
  
Meanwhile, over in the swordsman's ring, Sir Lactose the Intolerant, the order of matches having been reversed from the joust in order to keep things moving quickly, was fighting the first battle. He was fighting a man named Limply, who, as had Goodman Sloth, lived up to his name. He tried to dodge around the skilful swings of Lactose, but his weapon, a somewhat oversized longsword, hung loosely in his grasp, and was repeatedly knocked away, leaving his defences open. Unlike Sir Cus, however, Lactose did not end his battle quickly, but instead toyed with the poor man, taking small stabs with his dulled sword, making him cry out in pain, as he tried to bring his meagre defences to bear. But Lactose soon tired of this game, and with one quick feint, disarmed the man, and rather than accepting his surrender, he pummelled the man in the head with the flat of his blade. Limply fell limply to the dirt. This was getting too amusing for words. I looked to the next match. Winefiddle versus Sir Osis. Would the hilarity never end?  
  
About an hour later, the first round of combat was over. As expected, the entire cast of nobility had advanced. In the swordsmanship arena, Sir Tain had triumphed over his opponent with nothing more than a glare, and one swing from his massive sword. The man's name being Oak, and Tain being a lumberjack, it made sense. Sir Loin fared equally well against his foe, the local gardener Greenly. Sir Cus, in another dazzling display of acrobatic talent defeated a man scare more sprightly than Goodman Sloth had been, in this case actually diving between the tall man's legs and subduing him from behind.  
  
The jousting was no surprise either. Sir Lactose won in one pass, nearly killing adversary, one John White. Hmm, colour-coding victories now too eh? Interesting. Sir Tain was unable to compete at first, until an enterprising horse trader from Calimshan appeared claiming to have a mount capable of holding him. For once, a Calishite remained true to his word, and soon Tain was astride the largest stallion anyone had ever seen. It stood nearly twenty-two hands high, and weighed almost twice what Sir Tain did. It was, ironically enough, just as devoid of any decoration, in colouration as well as tack, as was Sir Tain. Smooth creamy white hair, without blemish, to go with the plain Plate that adorned Tain.  
  
The following several rounds went quickly, with victory after victory by the noble competitors. Soon there were only those five left, along with a very plain non-descript man whom I had not noticed at all during the proceedings. Checking the lists, I discovered that the man was named, deliciously enough, No Juan. All of the other men still remaining seemed just as surprised by his presence as I was, and soon whispers began to circulate around the crowd as to just who this man was.  
  
As strange mysterious competitors go, he wasn't anything special. No horns, tail, claws, or something evil like that. No wings either. He didn't claim to be the nephew or cousin of some noble or king; he didn't claim anything at all. He had registered, and competed, seemingly invisible, throughout the whole of the preceding rounds. But nevertheless here he was, garbed in forest green platemail, like coloured hose and helmet, and a shield bearing no sign whatsoever. He carried a perfectly average longsword, no mystical energies, bizarre runes or even flame in evidence. By all accounts he could have been just some man-at-arms who felt like a little competition. The main duties of running the preliminaries finally over, I relished the chance to properly insert a few little bits of word play into my commentary. Catching the eye of some of my intellectual compatriots, whom I assume were here for the same reason I was, I saw several smiles and knowing nods as I took my place before the area of magically enhanced sound I had created. My words would carry over the field.  
  
"Congratulations to all of our participants who did not make this final round, your courage and skill were very much in evidence this day, and you should be proud of your accomplishments." I saw many wide smiles from the field of eliminated competitors, although several, mostly those who had met Lactose or Tain, were nursing serious injuries, and managed only pained grimaces. But if I had said nothing, many would have been discouraged, and far be it from me to stop people from going out and bashing at each other with blunted lances and dulled blades. "However," I continued, "Only six of you advanced to this final round. Since the second round will consist of three competitors, one, which shall be randomly selected, shall get a bye to the final round, are the rules understood?" Nods from everyone but Tain, not that I was unduly surprised by that fact.  
  
The first set of finals to take place were those for the joust. The first match was between Sir Cus and Sir Loin, who mounted their steeds with anxious anticipation. They took their places at the ends of the field, and Sir Cus offered a salute with his slender lance, which was returned with vigour from Sir Loin. I gave the signal and they began their first pass.  
  
As their horses thundered towards each other at full gallop, the two men levelled their lances. Sir Cus had too much respect for his opponent to try something as spectacular as what he did in his match with Sloth, and he bore down with uncustomary intensity. Sir Loin, conversely, seemed almost too at ease, given that he was attempting to unhorse someone at full speed. The horses met at the midpoint of the field, and there was a terrific crack as two lances met two bodes simultaneously. The mounts continued their run, unheeding of the two men atop them. The sudden intake of breath as the crowd inhaled anticipating the death of one of the men was released as it became apparent that both were for the most part unharmed. Sir Loin's brown plate was now marred by a large dent over the right shoulder, which undoubtedly covered a like coloured bruise underneath. That would hurt in the morning. Sir Cus was by far the worse for wear from that pass. His left shoulder was bleeding from a nasty wound, and his leathers were quite torn, with shards of wood embedded in the broken straps.  
  
The two men discarded their broken lances for new ones, and set up at the end of the field opposite to where they had started. Sir Loin flashed a superior glare at Sir Cus, and made the 'you're dead' motion, pulling his thumb across his throat with a look of menace. For his part, Sir Cus flashed a grin and a rather rude gesture towards Loin, one which seemed to call into question just what Loin's loins were in fact made of, which sparked a series of guffaws and chuckles from the crowd, who were still hoping to see Sir Cus emerge victorious. I gave the signal, and they took off on their second run.  
  
As the crack of lances burst out into the crisp air a second time, they were accompanied by a grunt of pain that could only have come from Loin. The horses passed each other, and Loin slumped from his saddle onto the ground, which automatically made Cus the victor of this round. But rather than celebrate, Cus leapt from his horse and ran over to Loin, calling out that he hadn't struck him hard. I signalled the healers to take to the field, and soon Sir Loin was being carried from the arena, the victim apparently, of a heart attack, sparked no doubt by the wound he had just received, the one Sir Cus was claiming couldn't have been hard enough to cause this condition on it's own. But the dent directly over Loin's heart was no doubt cause enough, coupled with the amount of fat he had no doubt built up garnering a stomach the size of his. Suffice it to say, he was out for the duration, and Cus had advanced to the second round. Glancing to the swordsmanship board, I saw that Loin had been slated to fight Lactose, so he would gain a bye to round two. So much for justice.  
  
Speaking of Sir Lactose, his was the next match in the joust, pitted against Sir Osis of the Liver. They quickly took their places, seemingly eager to get underway. Their arrival at the field was met with a chorus of boos and hisses, and I was unsure as to which of the two the crowd would rather see advance, as neither were very good sorts. I gave the signal, and rather than breaking into gallop, they walked their mounts to the centre of the field. The crowd began to murmur and whisper immediately pondering this new development, as the two men began to converse quietly. After a moment or two, they split apart and retook their places. I gave the signal again, and neither man moved. Then Sir Osis walked his horse a few paces ahead and dropped his lance to the ground, conceding victory to Lactose. Apparently they had reached some sort of agreement. Filing this problem away to await farther investigation, I signalled for the final of the first round jousts, that between Sir Tain and No Juan, the mysterious stranger.  
  
The signal was given, the men charged. No Juan lowered his lance; Tain did the same. The horses neared each other, and the intake of breath could be heard even above the thundering hooves. The jolt and crack sounded out over the field, and both men continued to charge past the other. No harm to either, broken lances, and hefty dents in the armour were all that could be seen. They lined up for their second run, new lances in their arms, at guard. I signalled again, they charged again. At the last moment Juan yelled out "Tain, look, a distraction!" Tain's head whipped around and the back of his head met the blunted lance of Juan. Tain flew from the saddle, landing with a thud that seemed to scream broken neck. But amazingly, before I could call for the healer or, more likely, the priest; Tain stood up, very slowly, and shook his head. He looked up at Juan who was still astride his horse, and called out to him "umm…I didn't see anything."  
  
"Are you certain?" he replied.  
  
"Umm…yeah I'm Sir Tain, who'd you think I was?"  
  
"That's right Sir Tain. You are aren't you." Juan rode off the field, the sound of his mounts hoof beats drowned out by the peals of laughter coming the crowd. I resolved to find out just who this man was; I think very much that I'd like to meet him. For his part, Tain continued looking around dumbfounded, before staggering off the field.  
  
Trying to stifle my laughter before speaking again, I address the crowd to announce the second round of jousts.  
  
"The next match is between Sir Lactose and No Juan, assuming Juan feels up to jousting two runs in a row." A nod from Juan, "Sir Cus shall receive a bye into the final round, due to the odd number of competitors." A knowing smile from Cus, I also filed that away to ponder later. "If there are no problems, let the second round begin!" I sat down to watch.  
  
As the two men readied themselves, I took a spare moment to consider the events of the previous round, namely, the conversation between Lactose and Osis. Suddenly it made sense, and I couldn't help but applaud Lactose's cleverness. Looking to the board for the swordsmanship finals, my suspicions were confirmed. Sir Lactose would advance to the second round automatically since Loin was, so to speak, stewing in his own juices, and Osis was set to meet Sir Cus for the first round. Since rules forbade two byes by the same fighter, the victor of the Tain/Juan match would gain the bye to the final round. What this meant was that Lactose would be fresh for his match against the victor of the Osis/Cus fight. Since it was clear that Osis was no match for Cus on the ground, even rested from not having a joust, the second round battle would pit Lactose against Cus. The purpose of this whole exercise was to pit a fresh Osis against a tired Cus, thus tiring him out farther for his fight against Lactose, taking away his advantage of speed and agility. Masterfully done, and skilfully executed. I wanted him to go down, hard.  
  
However, regardless of my want to ruminate farther on this development, I had a joust to signal.  
  
The two men had taken their places, and I waved the flag to signal first run. The two men kicked their horses into a canter, then a gallop, and they raced towards each other. Midway through the run Cus called out to Juan, and he turned to look at him. Cus gave him a nod, which he returned. Suddenly, Lactose was upon him. Rather than try to counter his attack, Juan ducked out of the way, taking a point against him. Every match had gone from draw to win thus far, with no points accrued in between, so it seemed we were actually in for a proper joust. But as the men took their new places, Juan moved his horse out a few steps. Oh no, here it came, just when this event was finally starting to make sense. Juan gave his opponent a salute with his lance, then dropped it to the ground, surrendering. He dismounted and shot Cus a wry grin, then nodded again. Lactose frowned, trying to figure out this turn of events. That made two of us.  
  
"Congratulations to Sir Lactose the Intolerant, and Sir Cus D'Soliel, who have both advanced to the final round of the joust. Rules dictate that we hold both final rounds until the end of the tournament, so if you will bear with our ground crew for a moment, we shall convert the jousting arena to allow for the swordsman to take the field. Sir Lactose has received a bye into round two, since his opponent Sir Loin of Beef has suffered a heart attack, and so the first match will be between Sir Cus and Sir Osis, thank you for your cooperation."  
  
As the crews pulled the barrier for the joust to one side of the field, the men began their preparations for the fighting, strapping on weapons, and polishing shields. Everyone had a look of nervous anticipation, and I couldn't blame them. The better part of three quarters of deaths and serious injuries at tournament took place during the sword events. Since, as I had noted in my address, Lactose got a free ticket into round two, the first match was between Sir Cus and Sir Osis. This match was the one for which Osis had ceded the joust in preparation for. Nobody held any thoughts that Osis might win this bout, even though Cus was still favouring his left shoulder from his joust wound. Glancing to the far side of the field, I saw that odds for this match stood at 15-1 against Osis. He was as good as lost. The grounds crew vacated the field and I signalled the match to begin.  
  
Sir Osis was still in his pale green plate mail, and he held his shield in his left hand. However, he had forgone the use of his longsword to use instead a large mace. Despite not being a sword, any weapon that could be carried un-mounted was fair game for this event, so it was perfectly legal. The reason for this obviously was so that there was less of a chance that Osis could actually put Cus out of the fight before Lactose could get a hold of him. Sir Cus was still garbed in his patchwork leathers, and was wielding a slim Longsword in his right hand, and a dirk, which was a long dagger with an eight-inch blade, in his left. They offered a salute to me, then to each other, and the match went underway.  
  
Standard rules for a match of sword fighting dictated that any contact of weapon to body scored one point, match to five. Disarming an opponent did not stop the match, which was why many fighters carried two weapons. After each point, I would stop the match and separate the warriors. Fairly straightforward.  
  
The two men circled each other warily, trying to gain an idea of the other man's strategy and tactics. Suddenly, Osis lunged towards Cus, swinging his mace in a brutal overhand arc. Dodging lithely out of the way, Cus offered a smile towards Osis.  
  
"Careful there friend," he said, moving out of the path of another hard swipe "this is a friendly match, no need to take my head off."  
  
Sir Osis shot him a cruel stare, "You be quiet boy, and leave the fighting to your betters, Sir Osis of the Liver will be the death of you yet!"  
  
I'm not sure whether Osis even realised the humour, gallows though it may be, behind a remark of that sort, but on purpose or not, his comment caused Cus to let his guard down to indulge in a chuckle, and Osis was quick to take advantage, slamming Cus in the ribs with his mace. Grunting from the impact, Cus fell back a few steps as I called a stop to the match.  
  
"One point to Sir Osis," I called out, "the score stands at one to zero in favour of Osis, fighters continue."  
  
The fighters began circling again, Sir Cus with a lot more respect in his eyes for Osis than he had previously held. After a few more moments of sizing each other up, the two men charged as one, metal ringing out against metal, as Cus deflected the strikes of Osis. Soon it became clear that Osis was starting to get tired, while Cus still moved quickly, hardly breathing hard. But luck was not with Cus as he took a glancing blow to his already wounded shoulder. Wincing in sympathetic pain, I called a stop to the match.  
  
"One point to Sir Osis, the score stands at two to zero in favour of Sir Osis. Fighters resume."  
  
Faced with a two-point deficit, Sir Cus seemed to some alive. Dancing around Osis like he wasn't even moving, he scored two points in quick succession, neither doing more than ping against Osis' plate armour. After a third and fourth point, it became clear that this match was going to Sir Cus, which was of course, according to Lactose's plan. But rather than make his fifth and final point a clear one, Cus suffered another crushing blow from the mace of Sir Osis, this one coming in low and catching the poor man in the shin. The damage done, Osis accepted his fifth hit and the loss, sketching a mocking bow towards Sir Cus. He grinned at Sir Lactose and stalked off the field, none the worse for wear from the light hits inflicted upon him by his opponent. Cus, however, was helped off the field for a trip to the healer.  
  
Ignoring the anger that I felt towards this turn of events, I stood to announce the results and the next match. "Congratulations to Sir Cus D'Soliel. Victory won by a score of five points to three. The next match is between Goodman No Juan, and Sir Tain of Nothing." I sat down and watched the men take to the field. Tain strode out, swinging his massive flamberge like an axe, getting a precise feel of its weight and balance. Juan simply drew his blade and stood ready. I signalled the match to begin, and Juan charged directly towards Tain, feinting left then right with his blade, trying to get Tain to commit to a strike. With the weight of his blade, Tain likely wouldn't be able to pull back once he had been feinted. But Tain proved cannier than any of us had previously thought, and rather than make an attempt to block the darting blade of Juan, he stabbed his blade straight in, trusting in it's greater length to win the contest. Juan was too clever by half to fall for such a tactic though, well planned though it was. Turning to the side, he allowed the sword to pass him uncontested and as he ran past Tain, he spun around and struck him across the back with the flat of his blade. Grinning broadly, Juan turned to the crowd and made a grand flourish with his blade calling out "Olé!" I rose laughing and signalled the point to Juan. Tain spun around and flashed a murderous glare to Juan.  
  
"Duh…yous is makin fun of me aren't you?" snarled Tain, bring his sword swinging across his chest in a threatening motion.  
  
"I, Sir Tain, and certain that I am not"  
  
"Then why's everybody laughing at me?"  
  
"They aren't laughing at you my friend, they're laughing with you. They're impressed with your acting ability, for so accurately portraying a bull."  
  
"Really? They like me?"  
  
"Of course friend, so maybe you should oblige them and play along!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah cuz then they'd stop laughing at me and laugh with me more!"  
  
With that bit of finagling, the rest of the round went simply, with the laughter at the expense of the stupidity of Tain growing with each 'pass.' Tain was grinning from ear to ear as Juan was declared the winner by a score of five to zero. Juan reached up and clapped Tain on the back and called out to the crowd, "Give him a hand everybody, he's a great sport!" The crowd burst into enthusiastic huzzahs, and Juan nudged Tain into a deep bow before pushing him off the field. Standing up, I walked to the ledge where I could address the crowd.  
  
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the final round of swordsmanship before the championship match. The winner of this match will meet Goodman Juan for the title of the finest swordsman of the realm. The opponents for this match are Sir Lactose the Intolerant and Sir Cus D'Soliel, the self-same individuals who will meet for the championship match of the joust. In the interest of not unduly tiring out our erstwhile competitors, both men have agreed that this match go to three points instead of the usual five. If there is nothing farther?" I waited a moment, "then let the match begin."  
  
This was hardly going to be a fair match. Sir Cus had been through a brutal match against Sir Osis, whereas Lactose had not been through a single finals match, both his jousts going to him by virtue of the ceding of his opponents, and his one previous sword match being a bye due to the untimely exit of Sir Loin from the proceedings. As the two men circled, Cus flashed Lactose another of those inane grins. Growling in fury, Lactose charged at him, sword swinging wildly. Cus dove and leapt, somehow avoiding every thrust, every slash and stab that threatened to open him up like a cow at slaughter. The blades were dulled, of course, but nothing could stop them from cutting if the arm behind it wanted it enough. Things seemed to be going well for Cus until he had the grave misfortune of landing on his bad leg. Crying out in agony, Cus fell to the ground, his weapons skittering from his grasp. I jumped up, readying a spell in case Lactose should try and kill him, and called for a stop to the match. Lactose pounced over to Cus and placed his sword at Cus' throat, calling out "Yield!" Slapping the blade away from his throat with his forearm, Cus stood up and looked towards, of all people, Juan who nodded imperceptibly. Cus stood, brushing himself off, and signalled his concession from the match.  
  
Lactose seemed inordinately pleased with himself, but then, he did just handily defeat the foe that it was generally assumed would win the entire tournament. He was naturally greeted with a fresh chorus of boos from the crowd, and he flashed an evil glare out at the loudest of the individuals, many of whom couldn't help but fall quiet under his piercing eyes. He walked slowly off the field to prepare for the finals.  
  
Even though it meant more work for the ground crew, I decided to hold the jousting finals first, if just to put Sir Cus out of his misery. He was in bad shape, and I doubted he'd be able to make it through the joust even with Lactose tired from a sword fight, and so I thought I'd get it over with, and hopefully give Juan a better chance in the sword-fights. Unfair maybe, but everyone wanted Lactose to go down. I announced the start of the joust between Cus and Lactose, but before I could take my seat, Cus had approached the stand and asked to address the crowd. He shot me a sly wink and a nod, and I decided to let him speak to the people.  
  
"My friends," he began, giving a sober look that quieted everyone watching him, "I know many of you wished to see me win this tournament, but, alas, it is not to be. The efforts of Sir Lactose the Intolerant to humiliate me at every turn have been, regrettably, successful. However, all is not lost, for I have no intention of allowing that sour Sir Lactose to spoil this tournament. I have checked the rules and have found that, since I am unable to compete due to injuries obtained during the tournament itself, I may substitute another competitor for myself, and so I will. I choose as my replacement, the noble and gallant Juan."  
  
The crowd burst into another enthusiastic round of cheers as Cus directed their gaze to where Juan was standing. Juan nodded at Cus, then turned and offered a deep respectful bow towards the crowd, then to Cus then to me. Cus waved one last time to the crowd, and left the stage, saying: "Thank-you master Devonin, your reputation for kindness is well deserved" to me as he walked by. I nodded to him as he passed, and strode to the space he had just now vacated to call for the finals.  
  
"Ladies and Gentleman, a final round of applause for Sir Cus D'Soliel!" I waited for the applause to die down, which took a while. "The final rounds will now commence. First we have the last jousting match, between Sir Lactose the Intolerant, and Goodman Juan. Championship matches are to three instead of five, one point for unanswered strike, one point for disarmament, and three points for de-horsing your opponent. Let the championship begin!"  
  
I settled back on a bit of empty air I had conjured to allow me a better view of the proceedings as the two men mounted up and were given their first lances. I signalled to charge when ready, and both men spurred their horses into a gallop, thundering towards each other. Their lances met, and there was a terrific crash. As the men sped apart, Lactose dropped the broken lance haft in his hand, while Juan galloped on, his lance whole. Unanswered strike. Damn.  
  
"One point to Sir Lactose for unanswered strike, the score stands one to zero."  
  
I signalled again, and the men began their second run. Juan began to swing his lance around across his body in a figure eight motion as he charged, the purpose of which I could only guess was to intimidate. Were that so, then it surely failed, for Lactose simply levelled his lance and continued his charge. At the last moment, Juan brought his swinging lance up to meet the underside of Lactose's and the impact jarred the lance from his hand. It dropped to the ground with a dry thump.  
  
"One point to Goodman Juan for disarming his foe. The score stands at one point each." Lactose uttered a few rage-ridden words that I'd rather not repeat in this memoir, should it ever be read by children. Juan smiled at him like a benevolent angel, a smile that turned so quickly to a look of pure hate and then back again, that I wasn't sure that my eyes simply hadn't deceived me. Shrugging, I signalled third run.  
  
As the men sped towards each other, Juan's face was one of pure determination. He levelled his lance at Lactose, and began to slowly move it left to right, giving no indication where he was aiming at. Lactose had no such idea, his lance aimed straight at Juan's heart. The horses met, and the lances cracked, both men staggered. Two broken lances were dropped to the dirt. It was a clean pass, so to speak, no points. Both men, however, had suffered injury. The lance of Juan had caught the crease between Lactose's left arm and his shoulder, and several wood chips had lodged in the bleeding wound, garnering a pained grimace from Lactose as he pulled the shards from his flesh. Juan had taken a hit to his right elbow, it was not serious, and the lance had not penetrated his armour, but his sword and lance arm must surely be aching now. I motioned for the fourth pass, and the men were off again, Juan noticeably favouring his arm. As the horses neared each other, the two men set their lances, each aiming for the heart of their opponent. It seems both were going to try and unhorse their foe. The two men crashed together with a screech of metal. Lactose took a strong hit across the chest. Miraculously, he stayed on his horse, but the hit took him by surprise and with enough force that his own attempt to hit Juan failed.  
  
"Point to Goodman Juan for unanswered strike. The score stands at two points to one, for Juan." I raised my arm and dropped it to my side, and the fifth run was off. Lactose was kicking his horse brutally, forcing it into a faster and faster gallop. It began to froth at the mouth from exhaustion as he levelled his lance straight for the centre of Juan's chest. Juan kicked his horse into a gallop as well, but not nearly so violently as his opponent. The two horses sped together, and with a rising sense of dread, I saw Lactose's lance creep upward inch by inch. My god I thought, he's going for the throat. I watched them speed together, Juan bringing his lance into line. Good god let him see it. At the last moment, Lactose's lance shot up, coming right into line with Juan's throat. Impossibly, Juan saw it coming and dropped low, under the lance. Taking, it seemed, a trick from the book of Sir Cus, Juan dove headlong out of his saddle and slammed his shoulder into the ribs of Lactose, bearing him from his horse. Juan, for his part, managed to remain mounted, only he had changed his location to the back of Lactose's black stallion. Thinking quickly, I tried to remember if there was anything in the rules wrong with what he did, and to my satisfaction, there was not. It was unorthodox, but certainly legal. I rose to convey the good news to the audience.  
  
"Three points to Juan for de-horsing his opponent. Score is now five points to one, victory and the championship to Goodman Juan. Congratulations." The cheering that met that pronouncement was enough to deafen me. The combination of Juan's antics against Sir Tain, the support for him by Sir Cus, and his skilful performance against Lactose served to make him the official new favourite competitor and the crowd seemed more than willing to embrace him. He dismounted Lactose's horse, and collected his own, which was shuffling aimlessly off to one side of the field. He ignored the sputtering Lactose as he tried to get onto his feet, being slightly hampered by the heavy armour he wore. I announced the imminent commencement of the sword finals as the crew cleared the field, filling in divots left by the horses charging hooves, and both men began to prepare their armour and weapons.  
  
Just as I was about to signal the commencement of the match, Sir Lactose started speaking to Juan, to quietly for anyone to hear. Juan listened then nodded grimly, and both men returned to their tents, coming out with new weapons. Even from here I could see the shine of the razor edges to their blades. Before I could try to put a stop to it, Juan began to speak to the crowd, his formerly cheerful tone replaced by deadly purpose.  
  
"Ladies and Gentle sirs, this man has challenged me to make this duel to the death." I sharp intake of breath at that. "And I have accepted." Before the noises and mutterings of the crowd could gain a hold of the scene, Juan cut in again, "this man is a stain upon all that is honourable about this fair city, and I have taken it upon myself, with some help," he looked to the watching Sir Cus on the sidelines and nodded, "to wash this stain away. By his own request, this battle shall be until only one of us is alive, and should I die, he has agreed to take on any challengers who have been eliminated thus far to try and finish what I am about to start. Should I fail, I wish you luck, that this man's atrocities may be somewhat wiped clean by his death. Thank you"  
  
Slowly, Sir Cus began to clap, and one by one, the crowd joined in until the applause was simply deafening. Lactose sneered at the display, and took his guard position, which was met with equal fervour by Juan. I had hardly started to raise my arm to signal the start of the match when both men rushed each other with nearly inarticulate cries of rage.  
  
Swords clashed as the two men danced and feinted, using every inch of their skill in an attempt to do great hurt to the other man. As the minutes passed and neither man showed any signs of easing off their pressure, I became keenly aware of the fact that every person in the audience was holding their breath, and, much to my surprise, so was I. Me, the man who had faced down dragons, seen massive armies deploying across blood-soaked fields, and commanded magic and demons that would make many men weep, I was speechless, and breathless by this display. I had seen something like this once before, a man had employed a spell to create a duplicate of himself, which he then did battle with. This scene was much the same, only if the man had made the shadow image become his exact opposite. The two men met speed for speed, and strength for strength. Their movements seemed to have been synchronised, so identical were their techniques.  
  
The effect was not lost on the crowd. The cheers and jeers that had accompanied every other match had ceased, all viewers taken by the spectacle before them. I dragged my face away from the vision of fighting perfection before me and looked out to the crowd. The communal jaw was dropped, and I was not surprised to see tears on the faces of many of the old warriors. They had spent their entire lives aspiring to equal the feat being played out before them, and such incredible prowess was a sight they knew they would see never again in their life.  
  
The two men had been fighting for nearly five minutes now, and both were still at top form. There were no longer any individual sword strikes ringing out, all that could be heard was one long ring, as the blades met so quickly that individual contacts could no longer be made out. Suddenly I caught a look at Juan's face, and disbelief ran wild across mine. His lips were moving. As the movement of the men brought Lactose into view, I saw to my utter amazement that his were too. A battle this intense and the men were actually speaking to one another while they fought. It was almost too much to comprehend. Not wanting to miss any of what could be going on, I quickly employed a spell of clairaudience, to bring their voices to me. What I heard were tongues just as sharp as the swords in their hands. First to speak was Lactose:  
  
"By the gods man, you're incredible, where did you learn such skills?"  
  
"From a place far away from your grasping hands. It is not a place meant for such as you."  
  
"But your technique is flawless, you are my equal, I must know where you learned"  
  
"There you err, Lactose the Incontinent, I am not your equal, I am your superior."  
  
As if to drive the point home, at that moment, Juan's sword slipped through Lactose's defences and cut a gash along his forearm. It was a shallow cut, but it was the first time the man's technique showed any sign of weakness. Instantly, Lactose's guard snapped closed, and the long ring of steel began anew.  
  
"As you can see, fool, I can strike at you whenever I please. You are undone." Juan had a grim smile now, one that carried with it a look of calmly burning rage, the kind that aids, not controls. But Lactose was not to be undone so simply.  
  
"You think me beaten you little stripling of a boy? Do you truly believe that I am fighting to the best of my skill? I had hoped to kill that snivelling Sir Cus, but now I see that you were by far the better choice of opponents. Have at you!" Lactose delivered a cunning feint, and a slash that caught Juan unprepared, slitting his arm right open. At least, it did in theory. Juan blocked it. Easily. Lactose tried again, Juan blocked it. A look of desperation began to creep over Lactose's face as cunning strategy after devious twist failed him. Juan just kept smiling.  
  
"How, how do you do it? You must tell me, I will not have this unanswered."  
  
"Lactose the Ignorant, you will die without this knowledge."  
  
"Then you must tell me your name, I will know who has outdone me so easily."  
  
"Me? I am No Juan, my name you already know."  
  
"But that's impossible, no one would be named No Juan."  
  
"Indeed, and since I am No Juan, that is my name."  
  
"Dammit man, you will tell me!"  
  
"Look at it this way, Lactose the Idiotic, at least you die undefeated."  
  
"But this battle is to the death, surely I have been defeated already."  
  
"But you remain undefeated, for in combat, No Juan has killed you." And Lactose died, his head neatly severed from his shoulders. The irony was not lost on me. 


End file.
